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trees

Down the lane, across the field, and up the hill, there’s an old wood. If you walk far enough, wade through the sea of worm-chewed leaves, over cracking undergrowth and dead wood slowly sinking into mulch, you’ll reach the birch trees. You can see them approach you through the gloom of the forest, a web of silvery trunks filtering through the dark. Sometimes, in the muffled quiet ushered in by the twilight, the trees talk to me. They whisper very softly, and you have to listen very carefully to hear them. You have to put your ear right up against the bark, and stand perfectly still, so they think you’re one of them. If you do, you can hear them growing. Breathing. You can hear the water creaking through them, squeezing through the xylem, up from the ground, through the roots, worming out into the branches. If you look up, they splay out against the near black sky, veins and arteries and nerves stretching and reaching, reaching, never touching. You can hear the wood fibres stretch, split and break like brittle bones as the trees groan their way skyward. They gaze at each other across the grove with empty black eyes, clawing for each other with twisted limbs, so far apart. It’s comforting here. I can stand and talk to the trees, and I can reach out and trace the torn-up bark with my fingers: smooth and rough, smooth and rough, like touching an old wound. I can dig under the scabs which cling to them and rip them off, reveal the soft, sap-leaking trunk beneath. If I stand quietly enough, I can feel myself growing with them. I can feel my bones stretch and splinter, feel the worms eating into my feet. I take root in the ground. The trees whisper to me, pull me apart. They lay my nerves gently on the forest floor, draw my veins out through my wrists, pry my eyes out of my sockets. I am laid bare and open before the trees, and we grow up and apart. Narration by Elias Hickes Music by Ethel Cain (please don't sue me) No AI-generated content was used in the making of this video.